


Morning Kisses

by fictionallemons



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Love Confessions, M/M, One Shot, Parentlock, Post-Season/Series 04, Rosie Watson - Freeform, Sharing a Bed, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2019-05-16 02:43:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14802854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictionallemons/pseuds/fictionallemons
Summary: It didn’t matter how they got here. What mattered was that they were here. Finally.





	Morning Kisses

It didn’t matter quite how they ended up sharing the double bed on the second floor of the country house. It had to do with the case, of course, which had wrapped up very late, and the overly-solicitous client, a grandmotherly type named of all things Mrs. Violet Peacock, who had insisted on giving them lodging for the night, and the fact that the only room for guests contained a single, medium-sized bed didn’t matter a whit because anyone with eyes could see that Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson were partners in all things, not just solving crimes. And Sherlock and John had been too tired and too dizzy from their encounters with Mrs. Peacock to protest.

And so they had shed some clothes and lay down and promptly fell asleep.

John didn’t know how many hours later he opened his eyes to find Sherlock’s face, slack with sleep, inches from his own. It didn’t matter how they got here, he finally realized. What mattered was that they were here. Finally.

He let out a breath that he felt like he’d been holding for years. His breath probably smelled terrible, but Sherlock didn’t stir. He’d been going for forty-eight hours straight by the time they’d fallen into bed. John didn’t want to wake him, even to tell him the thing that he’d woken up and decided to tell him today. It could keep a while yet. Let him sleep.

So John just watched over Sherlock in sleep, and he let his mind wander to places he’d kept ruthlessly under lock and key for so long. For it didn’t do to fantasize about one’s friend, or flat mate, or dead friend, or best man, or godfather to one’s child. He thought it might be permissible to fantasize about the co-parent to one’s child, though. And in the year since he and Rosie had moved back to the flat, with a full-time (and thoroughly vetted not to mentioned trained nanny/bodyguard) on call (thank you, Mycroft), Sherlock had quite naturally become a parent to Rosie. He was, in a way, a much more intuitive father than John himself was. He empathized with Rosie’s insatiable curiosity and was only too happy to explore the world with her, from the mundane to the obscure. While John found himself anxious over every decision, Sherlock soothed and reminded him that whether she ate her peas or chewed a stuffed animal were not the most important things in life.

“She’s healthy,” he’d say when John was giving himself guilt trips over one thing or another. “She’s safe. She’s happy.” And John would nod, and relax, and enjoy the toddler speak coming out of Rosie’s cherub’s mouth. And he’d pretend not to hear when Sherlock would add under his breath, “She’s loved.” 

It was obvious that Sherlock loved Rosie. And she loved him back. It was clear every time she toddled over to his lap, raising her arms, demanding to be held, demanding a story from ‘Ock,’ l’s and shh sounds being out of her grasp at the moment.

And John loved Rosie and Rosie loved John. So that was all right, too.

But John also loved Sherlock. And he was fairly certain that Sherlock loved John as well. But that bit was rather more difficult to work out. Because if Sherlock loved John in a platonic, best-friends-forever, pseudo-parent to your daughter kind of way, well, that was fine. That was more than fine. But John didn’t really want to make things awkward by raising the issue that John’s love was more of the til-death-do-us-part, with-my-body-I-thee-worship sort of love, which also encompassed the desire for quick, enthusiastic shags in between long, leisurely lovemaking sessions that might last all day, or at least until Rosie came home from her play date.

But then they’d fallen into bed together, literally. And John had woken up and decided. Yes. Today was the day. It didn’t matter how they’d gotten here. What mattered was that they were here. And he was going to do it. Going to say something. Just as soon as Sherlock woke up.

John sighed. When would Sherlock wake up? His hair was tangled over his forehead and John itched to smooth it back, but he didn’t want to touch Sherlock without his permission, without both of them knowing that John would be touching Sherlock as more than a friend, as more than a partner, as more than a co-parent. He wanted to touch Sherlock with love, with care, with passion, with all the emotions that John had stopped himself from feeling for much too long. But now that he was giving himself permission, those feelings were about to erupt out of him and he really needed Sherlock to wake up. Right now. Or John might just explode.

“Sherlock,” he whispered. Okay, that might be cheating a little. But all’s fair in love and war, is it not? Only, the stubborn git didn’t move. “Sherlock,” he said a little louder.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose in an adorable way and scrunched himself down lower under the blankets. John gave up. He clearly needed the sleep. John rolled onto his back, and reached for his phone on the nightstand. There was a text from the nanny, Emily, informing them that Rosie had slept well and that they were off to a birthday party for one of her playmates. John responded with a cheerful text of his own, and an admonition not to let Rosie eat too much cake. She’d somehow inherited Sherlock’s love of sweets.

He thought about getting up, using the bathroom down the hall to freshen up. It was nearer to lunch than breakfast, and though he didn’t hear any noises in the house, Mrs. Peacock must be wondering when her house guests would make an appearance. He’d rouse Sherlock soon, they’d dress and find something to eat, extricate themselves from Mrs. Peacock, get the next train back to London and be home with Rosie by suppertime. 

Which left precious little time for him to make a declaration of love and see how it would be received. John huffed out a sigh, staring at the ceiling. Of course he’d let so much time go to waste, had talked himself out of it time and again, and now that he was determined to say something, to _do_ something about this vast ocean of feeling that he had only begun to acknowledge, he was waiting again for the right moment.

“Sod that,” he growled. “Sherlock!” It wasn’t a yell, but it wasn’t a whisper.

“I’ve been awake for five minutes. You’re thinking so loudly it woke me up.” Sherlock’s voice was rough with sleep, but without bite. 

John rolled over to face him, and indeed, Sherlock was awake and staring at him with his beautiful beach glass eyes.

“Oh.” All right. This was it. John took a deep breath. He could do this. He met Sherlock’s gaze and his heart melted anew. This was Sherlock, his Sherlock, his everything, and John was going to have to be brave, one more time.

“John?” Sherlock’s tone was tentative, as if he saw something in John’s face but wasn’t certain he was reading it right.

John’s gaze flicked between Sherlock’s eyes and his mouth. That mouth had the starring role in many of the fantasies John had had and pushed away over the years. They were inches apart, facing each other in the bed, white sheets rumpled between them, neither of them particularly clean or particularly rested. None of that mattered.

“There are things I need to say,” John said finally, his voice breaking a little. “But can I just—?” He moved his face closer to Sherlock’s by a degree, then stopped, waiting for a sign of assent. Sherlock’s eyes widened a little, but then he nodded, and John felt pure joy travel through him as he closed the gap and pressed his lips over Sherlock’s. He kept his mouth closed, the pressure and warmth of their lips touching, dry and firm more tender, more erotic, more loving than any touch John had ever experienced in his life. Because they were Sherlock’s lips, and they were kissing John back.

That’s all they did for a long moment, holding the kiss, until one of them, or both of them, moved and all at once, John’s fingers were tangled in Sherlock’s curls and Sherlock’s long fingers were wrapped around John’s shoulders and their mouths opened and tongues became involved and suddenly there was heat and friction and a sudden, insatiable need for more. And then there was a knock at the door and a voice calling out, “Mr. Holmes? Dr. Watson? I’ve put the kettle on.”

John tore his mouth away and swore colorfully under his breath.

“Indeed,” Sherlock intoned. And then they were laughing, giggling, really, like schoolboys.

“Won’t be a minute, Mrs. Peacock,” John shouted.

“Take your time,” she said through the door and they heard footsteps moving away.

John looked at Sherlock. His cheeks were pink, his hair a mess. He was the most bloody gorgeous thing he’d ever seen. When he told Sherlock that, his cheeks grew even pinker. 

“The things—to talk about—” John said, but Sherlock put up a hand.

“We will, John, we’ll talk, I promise. Let’s get out of here and go home.” Sherlock swung himself out of bed and John mentally calculated exactly how fast he might be able to get them back into a bed. Their bed this time.

“Yes, let’s go home to our daughter,” John said. Sherlock paused in the act of gathering up his discarded clothes from the floor and glanced up at John with bright eyes.

“Our—” Sherlock faltered, then seemed to recover himself just as fast. “Yes, excellent idea, John.”

John leaned over, and stole one more morning kiss before they had to go. It didn’t matter how they had gotten here. They were here now. Together. And it was glorious.


End file.
